Rites of Passage

I separate summer clothes from winter, choose the books

I cannot do without, sometimes I even say goodbye.

But it’s always really abandonment, the unmade

bed, the wet towels, the half-smoked cigarette,

the half-finished bottle, and the sleeping body,

each thing undone in its own way.

I tell myself that stories never end,

you just need to know the right place

to step out of them.